


Unfinished Duet

by kyrilu



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Dark, Backstory, Dubious Consent, M/M, Psychological Torture, Shock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 19:53:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raoul says, <i>impress me</i>, and Grey steals him an island.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unfinished Duet

**Author's Note:**

> My name for Q is stolen from Jack Harkness' brother for no real reason except that I like the name.
> 
> Also, my fic has a bit of a conglomeration of ideas: my Severine is kind of taken from captain_tots' [ No Rest](http://archiveofourown.org/works/577815/chapters/1036563); the inspiration of Pavlovian torture from thimble's [ la Bete series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/30234); and the basis for Silva finding Q and conditioning him since he was rather young comes from, as always, [ constantinflux](http://archiveofourown.org/works/566984). My thanks to you guys for writing awesome fic! ♥

Grey is sixteen, fucking around on his laptop in a cafe, polishing his growing technological skills, when a man pulls him to the side and buys him a cup of tea.

“Who are you?” he asks, and reflexively glances back at his computer screen, because he’s picked up the habit of hacking into places where he knows he shouldn’t go. He cradles the tea between his hands, which is a drink called London Fog, a sweetened version of Earl Grey, except with milk and vanilla.

“Introductions, later,” the man says. “Your name is Grey, is that correct? I’ve been keeping an eye on you, my boy. You’ve been sticking your nose into places you don’t belong.”

Grey stares calmly back at the man, his eyes narrowed “I apologise, sir, but I don’t understand what you’re talking about. Now, excuse me--”

He makes a move to stand. Take his laptop and his tea, and run.

But the stranger catches him by his shoulder and says, “No, no, my boy. You have no reason to fear me -- I’m intrigued by your work. That business last week, with the SIS? Very impressive. You have quick fingers.”

Grey stiffens at the mention -- _the SIS_ \-- and he opens his mouth to say: _it was nothing, I just wanted to see if I could do it._ But he closes it, frozen in place, and the only thing he can do is dip his eyes downward, dark.

The man smiles slowly at him. He repeats again, “I’m intrigued. I can arrange for us to do business together, hmm? Limitless possibilities in our field of work, Grey.”

“You want me to work for you.”

“With me. We’re both programmers, innovators, here.”

Grey considers this. His gaze skims over the man, at the unbuttoned collar of a suit jacket exposing the expanse of a throat, at the unabashed way the man gazes back at him, amused and approving all at once.

“Don’t turn me in,” Grey says, finally, hauling his laptop into his bag, setting the bag on a chair. He hands the man his tea. “Hold this for me, please.”

The stranger obliges, and Grey goes over to the till and purchases coffee. This cup is what he pushes into the stranger’s hands, freeing him of Grey’s tea. When the man raises an eyebrow, Grey says, “We’re even, now. I’ll go with you. You seemed like a coffee person,” he adds.

“Ah, I’m Spanish. More of a wine aficionado, in my heart. I appreciate the sentiment.” The man breathes in the coffee, takes a sip. “Predictable -- sweet of you, really. But I suppose you’re too young to indulge in alcohol, never mind buy any.”

“Don’t patronise me,” Grey says, sharply, and the man laughs at that, as if he’s said something funny. “I think _you’re_ the predictable one. Your favourite wine is sangria. You’re a posh cybercriminal with a vendetta against MI6. You’re disabled, too, and maybe that’s why. The line of your jaw is all wrong.”

“You’ve been looking,” the man says with a tight smile, and then his expression smooths over. He seems thoughtful. “You’re quite a find, Grey.”

“It’s easy,” Grey says, “since you’ve got a red splotch of wine on your sleeve right there. And you’re wearing a suit like _that_ \-- it’s obvious that your line of work isn’t legal, since you’re recruiting me. And you mentioned SIS specifically, even though I’ve been peeking into other governments and corporations on a bigger scale; the SIS was a bit of a trial run. I’m willing to bet you’ve got personal business with MI6.”

Slowly, the man says, “Ah. I think we’re going to get along quite well. All that work and you deserve my name, yes? Call me Raoul, Grey. And I’m very pleased to meet you.”

“Pleased to meet you, too, Raoul,” he says, with a tilt of a smile on his lips. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”

Well. He’s not stupid. Raoul probably knows who he is -- sixteen year old genius, ran away like a coward when his parents died. Makes a living by siphoning money from people’s private bank accounts.

(And too bloody cocky, too bloody smart, for his own good.)

 

#

 

Raoul says, _impress me_ , and Grey steals him an island. They’re in the dim light of a hotel room, and Grey has his first sip of wine -- _sangria_ , that one that means _blood_ \-- and it makes him heady and dizzy and stupid, and. He steals the fucking island.

It’s a good start.

They have to get by boat to get there -- it’s rather far -- but Raoul declares it their headquarters, their base. Their _home_ \-- abandoned houses and buildings scattered all around, echoes of its previous inhabitants, who’d fled at the whine of a nuclear siren.

It suits Grey well enough. There’s a cosy basement, where they fit in several computers, and he spends days on end huddled there. Raoul always stops by, whether to direct him to hack into certain corporations or governments, or instruct him in anything useful, or to bring him down to dinner.

(Down to dinner, when Raoul slides a hand across Grey’s jaw and acts ridiculously charming. _Boys like you were made to burn the world_ , he says once, and Grey says, _you’re a morbid arsehole, don’t you think?_ and kisses him.)

But there’s days where Grey is left alone -- Raoul usually leaves the island, tending to outside business.

Grey loses track of how many laws that he breaks (he used to count, when it was only him), of how many countries are on the lookout for his handiwork. There is no warrants that bear his name, not his real one, anyway.

He does find out Raoul’s last name, and the title _international cyber terrorist_ , and he remarks out loud, “You’re rather famous.”

Which makes Raoul beam, and say, “My dear Grey, if that’s what you want for yourself, I advise you to seize whatever you like.”

“I like my basement,” Grey says, dryly. “And listen to your own advice. You haven’t quite brought up MI6 again. Taking your time?”

“I’ve been waiting for seven years,” Raoul says. “I can wait longer. I can make my own protégé. Build an empire.”

“All right,” Grey says, shrugs, a roll of his shoulders. “I’m here.”

 

#

 

Today he pits himself against the CIA, and it’s a sodding close race when he realises that they see him, they notice him. His typing speed increases, and he thinks, _Just a little more more time; I think I can--_

Over his shoulder, Raoul freezes when he sees the screen, and he snarls, knocks Grey aside, and takes Grey’s place at the computer. Raoul’s fingers swipe out commands at an almost inhuman speed, and when he’s finished, he’s radiating anger. Danger.

On the floor, Grey returns Raoul’s gaze, a slight flush upon his face.

“You fucked up,” Raoul hisses, hands closing around Grey’s wrist, dragging him upward. Grey feels his back hit against the crumbling plaster wall, and he suppresses a complaint lodged in the back of his throat.

Raoul says, “Tsk, tsk, little Grey. Almost fell prey to the CIA.” He sounds pleased at the childish rhyme of the words. “I trusted you. I didn’t know that you could be so stupid.”

“I was fixing it!” Grey snaps.

“No. You were falling into their little trap, did you not see? An amateur’s mistake. And you would’ve led them to us.”

“Trap,” Gray say, flatly.

“Think. Think, my boy.”

His eyelids flutter closed, and he sees it, sees the mistake, sees the pit he was about to plunge into. Just one little misstep and he’d rot in prison for ages, maybe forever.

“I see it,” he says, and Raoul smiles, sharp teeth and sharp eyes, and Grey isn’t surprised at all when something shifts in Raoul’s sleeves, and he feels a needle slide into his arm.

 

#

 

He wakes with the sound of a plane screaming into his ears. He’s flying, high up, strapped securely into his seat.

It’s just a private aircraft for him and Raoul; plush chairs and clear circular windows. Grey had seen it land on the island several days ago and hadn’t thought much of it. There was always the boat, after all.

_Shit._

His surroundings go blurred before his eyes, as he memorises the plane’s interior, the shape of everything. He lets out a dry, high sound -- something like a curse or a sob -- and he curls in on himself, pulling his limbs tightly together as he can, trembling.

“How the fuck did you know?” he says in a half-whisper, and he sees the bodies behind his eyelids -- Mum and Dad and the bloke in the business suit who’d sat in front of him and the stewardess who put his tea down on the tray.

“You were fourteen,” Raoul says. He’s sitting beside Grey, leaning over. “And you were sent to therapy, of course, before you ran away.”

Raoul curls his fingers in Grey’s hair, stroking gently. Grey actually breathes -- momentarily _breathes._

“I know what you’re doing,” Grey says, slowly.

“You’re learning,” Raoul says, smiling. “Good.”

 

#

 

Once the plane has safely landed, Raoul says, “Your, ah, little trauma there is _quite_ unbecoming of you.”

Grey’s eyes blaze, and on tiptoes, he says, “Hong Kong,” against the side of Raoul’s face, and enjoys the way Raoul stiffens against him.

 

#

 

Somewhere along the way, Grey turns seventeen. And two months after that, Raoul brings home a woman named Xiu Li, who looks perhaps Grey’s age, maybe older.

Raoul says, “She has a sorrowful and dreadful past; I needn’t go into detail, but she is here to stay.” And then he leaves them both to access the other in a decorated lounge, the door closing behind him.

Dark haired, dark eyed, lean build. Something a mite sad about her, something a little vicious. Oh yes, Raoul has a type.

“Did he bring you here to fuck you?” Grey says, finally.

“Is that why you’re here?” Her voice is soft, Cantonese inflected.

“ _No_.”

“You don’t play his game very well,” Xiu says, amused, and exits, a fading flutter of a black dress, vanishing like she had never been.

 

#

 

Xiu, it turns out, is right. The fifth time Grey makes a mistake in front of Raoul, he ends up throwing up on his keyboard ( _the conditioned response_ , it’s called), and he’s just so sick of these _games._

 

#

 

Raoul renames Xiu, later, like how Grey later renames himself.

But for now, they stay together; they hang onto their old names. Pavlov’s bitches, the both of them, and Grey and Xiu smoke cigarettes in the island’s abandoned alleys, silently.

He makes her a gun (he’s moved onto building tech) and isn’t surprised that she already knows how to use it. She knows a lot of things, this woman who wears her dresses like armour. She’s Raoul’s _spy_ , per say; albeit one who climbs into Raoul’s enemies’ beds and puts a Beretta under their chins.

One day he traces the shape of her eyelids, half-crescents, with his fingertips, and says, “I wish we could go. Off the island, at least.”

She shakes her head. No.

So she wants to stay. But he’s tired: his _training_ , his _programming_ \-- all of it.

“He lets you leave,” Grey says.

“There are guards,” she says. Then she says, “I’ll arrange for something, Grey.”

“Thank you,” he says, and presses a kiss to her forehead, and remembers his mother saying, before she boarded the plane, _You’re going to have a sister, Grey. A little sister_ , and it’s the same thing -- you’re leaving her; you can’t turn back.

 

#

 

 

Xiu convinces Raoul to allow Grey to take a hacking job in Wales, and what is left is for Grey to leave a visible trail for MI6 to follow. They take him into custody to their so-called Babylon-On-Thames, and they don’t know about Raoul -- Grey’s crimes are attributed to one of Raoul’s contacts instead.

(There are some kinds of loyalty you cannot break.)

Grey is placed inside a white interrogation room, security cameras directed on him from above. One of the walls is a pane of glass, and Grey makes his way toward it, steadily.

“I can do it,” he says. “I can work for you.”

_I was betrayed for a title_ , Raoul had said, bitterly, murmuring of a woman he had called _mi reina, mi reina._

Grey smiles to himself now, and thinks, _Again._


End file.
